


Surely to the Sea

by calixte



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, M/M, Masturbation, Vivisection, Wound Fucking, anatomical features, surgical process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte
Summary: Companion piece/sequel to Time in a Bottle. AGAIN WITH THE WARNINGS.WARNINGS FOR: gore, blood, surgical process, wound-fucking, psychopathy, incest fantasy. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. Teeeeeechnically this fits in my MMoM stuff, but I decided against putting it into the chaptered collection.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Merry Month of Masturbation 2020





	Surely to the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tess_genor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/gifts).



> If you enjoyed this, come on down and join us on the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/nBYCCwX)!

_Wise men say only fools rush in…_

The desktop was wide and luxurious, his space framed by the dark, oxblood-red cinderblock wall and both bookcases, drawings of anatomical process rendered in fine pencil strokes scattered across it. Martin had a gift for art and transcribing the delicacy of nerve and muscle fibers, the perversely bloodless arteries, veins and capillaries twined into the stretch of a wrist and forearm and making what should have been repulsive into something absolutely beautiful. Martin sat there at his desk chair, untethered, uncuffed, with his knees spread obscenely wide and his hospital-white trousers shoved down around his hips. The band rested just under his balls, elastic biting into his thighs when he tensed them as his palm slicked up his cock, fingertips swirling around the head in a practiced twist.

He could imagine it all laid out before him as if the cell and surroundings, the whole hospital were only vapor to be burned away by the brilliance of his son--Malcolm, there, laid out in pale splendor just behind his eyelids. Martin smiled as his eyes slid shut, head falling back as the fantasy properly began.

_Shall I stay, would it be a sin?_

His skin was perfect, smooth and unmarked, belly taut and muscular--the FBI had done at least one good thing for him, though keeping Malcolm away all those years was a hard mark against them--as Martin began his incision. He used a perfect new ten blade, because he wanted these lines smooth and lovely, no jagged rushed work for this canvas. The Y-cut was easy, gave access to the thoracic cavity nicely, and had the added element of revulsion--so many people squirmed when they imagined corpses. Of course not his boy, Malcolm was far too worldly for that.

His boy barely made a sound, spread-eagled on the clean gray sheet, bound wrist and ankle not because he might escape, but because _too_ much motion would ruin his cuts. Still enough play there to squirm, and oh Martin wanted him to squirm and writhe underneath him, especially now. 

Martin’s hand wrapped around his cock, now fully hard, throbbing with his pulse as he lazily stroked himself; he’d always been thick, something that had driven Jess wild before all this. Something that Malcolm would enjoy too. He took his time imagining the surgical process, peeling away skin and muscle and fascia until the ribs were laid bare, bloody and stark like fingers curved around a precious, pulsing ruby. The heart, though Malcolm's was perfectly suited to fitting in Martin's hand like it was made to be there, wasn’t his goal this time; Martin’s scalpel worked delicately and steadily around the curve of bone, carefully shearing away pectoralis major and minor, serratus anterior, the external and internal intercostals. Malcolm shuddered, the body convulsing as shock set in and his eyes went glassy: Martin only grinned, gazing down fondly at his prize, spreading a hand wide on his shoulder and sliding with a bloody trail up, cupping his jaw. 

“Now, now, my boy. You’re beautiful like this. Don’t ruin it.” The words, even the thought of them, and the stuttering, stilted nod his imagination conjured in return, went straight to his dick, pulsing in his hand and making him dig into his thigh to curb the impulse to spend too soon and end the fantasy too early. “You’re doing so wonderfully. You can take this.” Malcolm let out a noise half-sigh and half-moan, limbs quaking in the restraints as Martin peeled back bloody musculature and set his hands firmly around the cartilage linking ribs seven and eight.

_Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling, so it goes…_

“This will hurt, Malcolm. Deep breaths, my boy,” he coached, lips twitching as the words fought to escape his mouth, making his hips cant up into his hands, imagining the snap of bone and the scream Malcolm wouldn’t be able to swallow back. He could practically see the boy’s larynx straining under pressure, adams-apple bobbing in his gorgeous throat. But the cartilage came away easily enough, leaving the liver unprotected. Of course, any real surgery like this--any Martin would be able to pull off currently, anyway--would mean his boy would already likely be dying, but the unreal nature of his daydream meant Malcolm was only a little pale, a little shaky over it all. His boy wouldn’t suffer.

Much. 

Martin shifted up, trousers undone completely to expose a cock in his daydream as hard as his was in reality, stiff and leaking pearlescent beads of pre-come from his slit. “Only the tip at first, my boy. I’ll take it easy on you. Remember when we talked about Dahmer? The _groceries_?” Malcolm, of course, was hard as well; he was more slender than Martin, his cock softer but still growing as his father straddled him, a fingertip pushing between the lobes of his liver and reveling in the body-warm, wet heat. He followed it quickly with the velvet-soft head of his cock, surging forward with a strangled gasp as he found he couldn’t stop with just the head buried in that exquisite sensation. It was so tight, so hot, so unbearably intimate to be settled on top of his son, bare and rock-hard cock stuck deep inside him until his balls had drawn up tight, edging into orgasm already.

_Take my hand, take my whole life too..._

Martin’s hips jerked, cock spurting over his fingers as he tugged himself, but no clue of his fantasy escaped in the stilted, breathy moan he let out, hissing through his teeth as he flexed his legs, bending his spine and drawing out the ecstasy of coming and reveling in the feeling of his muscles tensing and relaxing in agonizing, glorious turns. His eyelids fluttered and eventually parted, smile still on his face as he focused again, only belatedly realizing where he still was.

Ah, well. No fantasy would last forever, but he could revisit this one whenever he liked. He rolled his shoulders and his neck popped as he took in the state of his desk, his come dropped like tears on the edges of his papers strewn over the desktop. He’d have to clean them, but right now he had a more urgent subject to attend to. Right now, he wanted to get the picture in his mind down onto paper: sharpened pencil in hand, he took out a fresh sheet. 

Slowly, delicately, but surely, the arch of a ribcage skinned clean of muscle took form, hiding the dark-shaded liver and lungs, expanding out with breath and making the thorax a tight squeeze. It would be his own little treasure, this drawing, a memory made solid of the slender planes and angles, the gentle curves of a body he knew as well as his own despite having not seen it unclothed in years. Malcolm could never hide that from him, the way he rarely ate, the psychogenic tremors, the almost-feminine curve of a slim waist and narrow iliac crest.

Martin smiled, humming a soft little tune under his breath as he swept his fingertips over the paper as if lovingly caressing the subject on it, smearing trails of his semen over the edges, well away from the graphite lines, but still so close. Close enough to bring to mind what had spawned this sketch: the idea of Malcolm’s face, so open and trusting and helpless to resist, beautifully piercing blue eyes locked onto his face and hands as Martin worked to carefully cut him open. His boy, his absolute treasure. They really were so very much the same.

_For I can’t help falling in love with you._


End file.
